


Remembrance

by JoAsakura



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, Trinity Blood
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 21:23:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoAsakura/pseuds/JoAsakura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the far future, a new Nation learns their past. Written as a drabble request.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remembrance

Kraliçe often wonders if the Ancients have become addled in their old ages. Hundreds of years ago, when she was newly formed, they came to her, these terrifying, old terran-seeming men and women. They explained to her that she was one of them.

A Nation.

They gather, forgotten by the leaders of their countries, but not by their people, to remember their fallen. They gather every one hundred years, in a barren wasteland far east of Kraliçe's own borders. They told her once, this place had been Russia's, a name she didn't recognize. In the silent, dead land, they spread out food and drink like a picnic and they tell stories that the young Empire finds nearly impossible to believe.

Terran nations that stretched from ocean to ocean? The world full of Nations like her? Like them?

Hispania explained to her once that it was not uncommon for Nations to pass on once their people had forgotten them, to be replaced by their children. The world had become crowded with them, Nations fighting and loving each other. Until humanity grew too much and too restless. And when they left for Mars, the Nations of Earth dreamed of what those children would become.

Dreams that died horribly when Armageddon came.

Vatican swigs back his wine, and murmurs a toast in a dead language to his brother. Germanicus talks in hushed, fond tones about his fathers, while Hungary laughs softly to her own memories. The Baltic Nations tell stories about Russia's madness, and his loneliness. They tell her of her own grandparents, Turkey, Egypt. Sometimes they tell stories of even more fantastic lands- Nations called America. Canada. Japan. China. Huge Nations and tiny ones. All of them gone in just a few grotesque moments.

The Empire listens to these stories with rapt attention, but always she wonders. Why doesn't Albion share any? He sits and drinks, thick eyebrows knitted and green eyes bright and sharp like broken glass.

The ninth time they meet, Kraliçe finally hears his voice. He talks about his children and his beloved brothers. And his voice, deep and gravelly, breaks when he talks about America. About his brave and beautiful and foolish Alfred.

Of all the Ancients, the Empire was always the most afraid of Albion, even more than Vatican. But as the tears roll down his face and he takes another pull of scotch (named for another brother, long dead, long dead) she finds he no longer terrifies her.

Maybe, Kraliçe thinks, they're not mad after all. But maybe they should be.


End file.
